


Cherry Lips

by Butmunchr



Category: Left 4 Dead (Video Games)
Genre: Character Study, Closeted Character, Flirting, Gay Male Character, M/M, Making Out, Male Original Character - Freeform, Pre-Canon, Relationship(s), Sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-14
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-22 05:47:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30033981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Butmunchr/pseuds/Butmunchr
Summary: Alone in the club as bodies whip around him. His glass, full, as he goes in search of himself. He sees him, twisting among the crowd, opiating him with a single touch. No one can stop him here, hidden between the sweat and vibration of resilient bodies, still, something in him breaks, and he’s not sure if he’s ever going to fix it.
Relationships: Ellis/Nick (Left 4 Dead)
Kudos: 9





	Cherry Lips

**Author's Note:**

> Ellis trying to find himself.

Dancing to heartbreak and passionate lights. Sparkling streamers ricocheting from one another, propelled by tattling crowds.

He's already drunk an armload of foamy beers, their bubbles still hanging on his stubbled lips. Moving through the twisting crowds his body is pulsing, mimicking the ravenous beat. He licks along the brightly lit T-shirts and tattered checkered tops; bras trailing paths under the thin material. 

The night gets hotter—his “tipsy” is now swirling and heavily laden with buzzing alcohol, letting him slip away and forget just who he is, where he is dancing. He moves around white fingers, mysterious powder already sucked between scarlet lips, and sees him. Oak hair trimmed short, sides engraved with the veins of the city. Eyes shining bright, teeth blinking in and out of pink and purple light.

Their steps quicken as does the beat, bouncing them through the crowd and bonding their chest together. Ellis’ hand is still holding onto his drink, yellow and golden brown spilling between his fingers as the man leans close, minty breath swirling around the tip of his nose. Light blinks in a rapid flash, and through the blinding their lips connect; chapped against bliss. 

They lap the sweetness off each other’s flesh, rolling in tandem with a personal beat. His lips suck tiny spots on Ellis’ own, teeth nipping at wavy curves. His tongue rolls out, mingles between the mechanic’s pearly whites, connecting them. Ellis groans, pulling back, pushing in. His partner grins, losing contact; drags him further into the back of the club.

The man’s leather jacket connects to the carpeted wall. Ellis can feel the rough bulbous material slide along the creases of his fingers as he hovers over him, brunette curls tickling along the mechanic’s cheeks. His hair smells of sweat and fruity alcohol, aroma smooth as it travels down Ellis’ throat. The mechanic leans in, yet the other’s skin escapes him, bouncing off once again, letting Ellis chase after opium salted lips.

The club’s bathroom door flutters as they clamber inside. Ellis’ back is the one to connect to the cold tiles this time, sweat cooling against their marble chill. His glass spills in blobs between his knuckles, foam turned into fizzy piss. “Wait,” they exchange giggles, his hand reaching out, sloppily depositing his drink. The glass rings in the empty space, signaling for them to continue.

Or is it empty? Ellis might have heard the trinkling of giggles pass about as he tussles the other’s hair, yet overpowered by his hushed whispers, leaking way too easily past intoxicated gates, dives deeper, tripping through a familiar dance.

Hands rub against the white cotton of his T-shirt, fingers sparkling underneath, scratching through a happy trail playing peekaboo. Kisses sizzle along his jaw, escaping his senses behind an ear, teeth startling him instead. His hand rushes underneath the other’s jacket, bracing itself where the muscles of his stomach meet the hardness of his bones. His other, shivering from delight, scathes along the back of his partner’s neck, the fine-grit sandpaper of his fingertips palming the flesh.

The other’s pants ring down the back of his throat as he hasn’t stopped kissing him, pierced tongue skittering across the row of teeth, sliding along the roof of his mouth and then out. Ellis chases after it, more in effort to let himself believe this lie, rather than a holistic sense of pleasure. His partner smiles, dimples so pretty as he delves back into his lips.

The heat between them increases, yet the blinding sparks emitting from his partner bounce off Ellis, melting in the air around him. He remains cold, impassionate, the alcohol now a lie, having been water all along; letting his mind hang heavy, split apart by real thoughts. His hand has gone still, the itch to touch turned into sweat he’s eager to wipe off his indigo jeans.

He leans into the wall as the other moves his hips, grinding up into him, squeezing the soft parts of his behind. His mouth laps the lines of Ellis’ neck, a smile etching into the skin whilst teeth sink in taut bones. He sucks the flesh into the entrance of his mouth, bruising Ellis’ pulse and feeling it jitter. 

His eyes shoot up, sparking, burning with desire reserved only for him, only for Ellis. Yet, Ellis feels nothing, the alcohol leaving its burning too quick, too soon; shame as liquid as melted ice washing through his emboweled insides. His eyes droop, their passion retreating in their shell.

Coffee-rich eyes look at him closely, the alcohol swirling within them, yet sober politeness mixing in his drawl. “Hey,” he is no longer grinding into him, hand rubbing the mechanic’s left arm. “Yew alright?”

Ellis straightens himself, his body refusing the kind gesture. He looks everywhere but the man’s face. A man his own age. A man that is as careless and assured as Ellis should be. He shakes his head and pushes the other’s body away, leaning into the sink. The marble reflects more beautifully than the young man barely a foot away

The brunette’s cheeks are no longer red, his breath no longer minty. “Did Aah… did Aah do somethin’?” 

He keeps his distance, stance alienated, fingers clasped into a tight knot in front of him. The mechanic threatens to topple over, mind overexerted as it tries to register the words, yet unwrap the goo that is his tongue at the same time. He is no longer having fun here, strained adam's apple swimming in distress along the line of his throat. 

The other’s unsure step knocks his sense back, piecing him together. “Aah— Naw, naw, ya didn’ do nothin’, ‘s jus’, uhm,” _I can’t get it up?_ “Um… Aah need tah head back home. Jus’ not mah naaght, Aah guess.” The laughter that escapes him reeks of plastic flowers and an easy way out. 

His partner is too drunk to notice. “Jeez, dude, um,” sloppy wrist rustles the cinnamon roots, its force stumbling him to the side, “Aah kin… call ya a cab? Or faahnd ya frien’s for ya? Brin’ ya sum water?”

Ellis’ lips chip into a small smile, barely there, tasting the gold flowing through the other’s heart. “Nah, Aah’m good.” His palms fondle the wet patches of marble as he drags himself toward the grey door. He turns—he’s still stalling against the wall. “But thank ya. Hope ya have a great naaght.” He pushes the door, leaving only his echo behind.

No more fun can be derived from the twisting crowd as the mechanic screws through them—their sweat no longer sweet perfume, the grip of naughty hands bordering on abusive. A few try to stop him, drunk out of their senses, fingers entangling between his own and beckoning him toward the quiet of the walls. Ellis shakes them off, breaks their delusion for just a second before the alcohol within them takes over, latching them onto the next prey.

Clinically white and painfully contrasting the cork-high and bottle deep stupor deeper into the club, the cloak room prunes his drunkenness. It’s designed so lost souls can compose themselves and find their coats, and for entering guests to share a last sober laugh before removing their garments and breaking the dance floor. Yet, it rarely worked: drunken friends would topple into the cold air, wearing but their bras, and sober jocks would holler into the entrance, sprinting through the doorways and sweating into a puddle inside.

The mechanic sways behind a group of slender girls, their short skirts doing nothing to his perplexed body. They run off giggling, paper slips peeking from their singed waists. He’d never realized he’d stared. “Number, sir?”

His brain recoils somewhere inside of him, coming back just in time for his hands to find his back pocket, hidden among the scrambled-eggs-shape of his body. The tips of his nails dig into a mysterious number. 

The young receptionist accepts the paper slip, quite turned off by the repetitive display. His eyes throw a quick glance at the inked 47 and he unhooks Ellis’ father’s heavy jacket; brown leather scratched and overused.

Mumbling a brief ‘Thanks.” Ellis stumbles, boot catching onto a tile in the pavement outside, sending him into the sharp descend of the streets. His hand shoots out, gripping onto a cold lamppost, riddled with announcements and fliers. No one bats an eye as he wobbles left and right, empty air supporting his uneven fly.

Crowned mistress Moon’s lids are sleepy, her fairy light barely reaching the pebbles lining the road. She’s revealed her pure bosom, the scars along her skin visible now that no one pays her mind; only Ellis as he’s looking, tortured from the inside. Her light winks and fades, the frilly clouds of her dress covering her playfully, her laughter ringing in his ears.

Coiled tight, his pockets bulging from the vice of his fists, Ellis stomps along the road. His eyes sting, tiny thorns jabbing his dry pupils, swirling the colors of the pavement and enlarging the lights on the road. The flakes along his lips still hold onto the cherry flavor of the young man’s lips. His kisses still pulse with every swallow Ellis takes. Yet, there is still no deeper pleasure; no way of making his body swell and rouse from sleep. 

No way of making his body flair in the present, feel the hot pulses break him down from within.

His boot stomps on a soda can, its metallic ribs sputtering for mercy into the shallow air; a heavy kick sending its crumpled confidence into a starless night.

**Author's Note:**

> howdy!  
> if you ever want to contact me do not hesitate to hit me up [@anuspastor](https://anuspastor.tumblr.com/) (tumblr), [@anuspastor](https://twitter.com/anuspastor) (twitter), [anustart_xx](https://www.instagram.com/anustart_xx/) (instagram) and of course, the comments


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